


Not a Clue

by milverton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, POV Greg, Penis Size, Sex Tapes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 06:58:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8134549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milverton/pseuds/milverton
Summary: Clearly, this isn't going to be a one-man show. Colour Greg shocked. He's never really thought of Sherlock as a sexual being let alone a sex partner.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a fan of the “Scotland Yard’s reaction to finding out about Sherlock and John” trope so I wrote this fic, which is utterly meaningless and is replete with John-Watson-has-a-large-dong jokes.

“Can’t believe I’m saying this, but Sherlock’s brother was wrong,” Greg says after coming up empty-handed on their seemingly one-millionth 221b drugs bust. (Should he have said that aloud? Covert MI5 operatives could be lurking about here in the dark corners of the sitting room, waiting to strike). “He told me he was worried about there being…something. He seemed certain of it.”

“Why, pray tell, didn’t he just ask Watson for help?” Donovan asks, fluttering her eyelashes mockingly, arms crossed over her chest.

Greg shrugs. “He said John won’t answer his calls. Dunno why. Mycroft insists he knows his brother better than John, anyway. I really didn’t want to get involved—“

A loud bang startles Greg into silence. He whips his attention toward the source to find young constable Whitestone staring at the closed laptop—John’s laptop; she’d been tasked with doing a sweep of it—her cheeks flushed bright red.  

Donovan jabs her chin at Whitestone. “All right there?”

“Yes. Fine. I--it was, um. I saw something private,” she says hastily.

“What?” Greg says, interest piqued.

In response, Whitestone merely shakes her head, long, tight ponytail swinging with the motion.

“Come, now,” Donovan says imploringly, prowling toward Whitestone.

“It’s nothing,” Whitestone assures them. “I don’t know why I was looking at the laptop anyway. Protocol, yes, but this is a unique situation—“

“Yeah, sorry, it was clearly not nothing,” Donovan cuts in, eyes glinting mischievously, leaning over Whitestone’s shoulder and opening up the laptop, pressing enter to put it out of sleep mode. “Share the wealth.”

“But Sergeant,” Whitestone protests weakly. Donovan resolutely ignores her. Greg can’t fight his own curiosity, sidles up to Donovan. They wait for the screen to load.

The laptop comes to life, and a video immediately starts playing, showing Sherlock’s bedroom.

On screen, on the other side of the large bed, bent slightly and rummaging through a drawer, is Sherlock Holmes in all his lithe, bony, pale glory. 

In more indelicate terms, Sherlock is stark bollocks naked.

“Jesus,” Greg huffs out, pinching the bridge of his nose, keeping his eyes trained on the video, morbidly intrigued.

Sherlock-on-screen slams the drawer closed, places what looks very, very much like a bottle of lube on the nightstand, then flops onto bed, sprawling out on his back and stretching like a cat, his entire pale, willowy body on full, unobstructed display, his profusion of curls fanned out around his head. His eye catches the camera, and he smirks with sultry confidence. It’s almost as if he knew they would be watching, as if this video was made for them. The smirk says it all: _You like what you see, don’t you? Well, you’re in for a treat._

Greg isn't so insecure in his sexuality that he can't admit Sherlock’s a good looking bloke. If Sherlock were to find out that three people saw him as naked as the day he was born—well, if Greg were Sherlock, he wouldn’t feel insecure about it.

Greg goggles at the screen.

Sherlock, to him, has always been untouchable. This Sherlock is foreign to him. He’s never seen Sherlock like this (open, vulnerable, bared for all)…and was obviously never, _ever_ , meant to. But here Greg is. Not doing a damn thing to stop it, not looking away. He can't help it--he's riveted.

...But, hell, he _really_ shouldn't be watching this. Sherlock’s his mate, and this is an egregious invasion of privacy.

Greg starts, “Christ, we shouldn’t be—“

“Is the nutter talking to himself?” Donovan interjects.

“ _What_?”

“Turn on the sound, it’s muted,” Donovan urges Whitestone.

Sherlock is pushing himself upright, sitting cross-legged on the bed, now. He coifs his hair, turning his neck to the right, to the left, assessing all his angles, eyeing the camera vaingloriously and, indeed, his mouth is moving a mile a minute.

Whitestone looks up at Sally in horror. “Sergeant—“

“Turn on the sound, Constable Whitestone.”

Whitestone reluctantly obliges, and Sherlock’s baritone rumbles through the speakers: “ --the left.” The screen moves slightly, and Sherlock’s more centred.

Clearly, this isn't going to be a one-man show. Colour Greg shocked. He's never really thought of Sherlock as a sexual  _being_  let alone a sex  _partner._  

Now he _has_ to keep watching, despite it being a horrible idea and confirming Greg to be a despicable person.

“More.” The screen moves again, and Sherlock is perfectly centred for their optimal viewing pleasure. “Perfect,” he purrs.

Soon, there's a flash of skin on screen, tanned skin, then legs, an arse, back, scar, and a sandy-blond head of hair.

Greg can’t look away fast enough. “Christfuck," he hisses.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Donovan says in wry disbelief.

That’s certainly a new development.

Greg didn't know John was into blokes. He hadn’t a clue. Not a single, solitary clue. (He can hear Sherlock’s sardonic voice in his head: _there’s nothing new under the sun)._ And he didn't know Sherlock was into—rather, interested in anyone at all. In that way.

On the other hand, for them to...find each other somehow makes sense. How did he miss it? How long could they have possibly—

“Jeanette wasn’t kidding about that.”

Greg forgets his train of thought and snaps his attention back to the screen. “What?”

“John’s cock. It’s huge. Jeanette said it was.”

Greg groans, pointedly not looking anywhere near John’s groin on-screen. He instead looks at the daguerreotype of an austere-looking Edgar Allan Poe hanging up on the wall of Sherlock’s bedroom.

Donovan continues. “Did you know her?”

“What, who?” Greg asks, utterly tortured.

“Jeanette. She used to date John and, as it happens, she and I went to secondary school together back in the day. She dropped him off at a crime scene once and I couldn’t believe it was her—anyway, we reconnected, went out for a few pints weeks later. This was a day or so after she broke up with him, I think, and she was railing against him the whole time. It was  _great_. She mentioned that she’ll really only miss his enormous—“

“All right, thanks! I get it," Greg interjects.

Out of respect for his friends, he knows he mustn’t watch this. He needs to put a stop to this. He must—

“Apparently he was a shite boyfriend,” Donovan persists. “Can’t say I’m surprised anymore; Watson was probably gagging for Holmes back then as well.” 

“Watson? Oh, is that John Watson?” Whitestone asks in a tone better used when running into someone at Tesco's, looking curiously at the screen. 

“Yep,” Donovan confirms.

“I’ve not met him yet,” Whitestone says quietly. “He’s quite handsome.”

Donovan snorts.

“God help me,” Greg says hollowly.

The more he looks at Poe, the more Poe seems to be judging Greg—though he doesn’t have a right, the bloody pervert—so he instead turns his attention to John and Sherlock kissing, John straddling Sherlock’s hips and thrusting forward ever-so-gently, hard cocks mashing together, moans intermingling and muffled by heady kisses.

Right, so, John is one of his best mates.

They’ve become really close, and here he is invading his privacy, standing and watching him about to get off with Greg’s other mate. They clearly wanted to keep their relationship private--no one seems to have known about it...until today. Greg’s disappointed in himself, truly.

But then Greg gets a gander at the member in question and _bloody hell_. John’s lying on his back and Sherlock’s sitting on his thighs, stroking John’s rather sizeable cock, indeed. _G_ _ood for John._ Sherlock continues to stroke it languorously, darting glances at the camera every so often, leaning back slightly to give the camera a better view of his ministrations and John’s groin. Sherlock leans down to kiss John and John smiles lazily, stretches up to meet his lips; their kisses are soft, sensual, slow.

“They must really be in love,” Whitestone says wistfully.

Greg grimaces.

“This is  _so_   _boring_ ,” Donovan grouses, as if she’s a disgruntled film critic. “I would’ve expected these two lunatics to be really kinky in bed.”

When, finally, Sherlock and John break for air, John says “Up” and Sherlock promptly climbs off John, rolls to the other side of the bed and sits there.

“Where do you want me?” Sherlock asks, low.

John glances at the camera, then at Sherlock.

“Edge of the bed, on all fours. Face away from the camera,” John decides gruffly.

Sherlock does as told, slides backwards so his knees are propped on the edge of the bed, legs hanging off, arse facing the camera, all sordid details on clear display.

John scoots to the edge of the bed, sits beside Sherlock’s right leg, and gives a resounding smack to Sherlock’s right arsecheek, causing the flesh to ripple. He then reaches over, spreads Sherlock’s arsecheeks apart, allows the audience to get a nice, hard look at Sherlock’s perineum, and then admires the view himself. Greg wants to die. John stands up, a bit to the side, leans over, dribbles spittle onto Sherlock’s arsehole and rubs in the saliva with a thumb, very slowly. Sherlock lets out a shuddering breath.

Greg will  _never_  be able to go back to a time in his life where he hasn’t seen this video. And it’s all his own bloody fault.

“John,” Sherlock whinges, breaking the silence after too many moments of John rubbing at his arsehole. “Fuck me.  _Please_. Forget about the damn video.”

“Be patient,” John scolds. “I’ll bloody well take my time. This video is for me, remember?”

“We can Skype when you’re at the conference,” Sherlock suggests, tone dripping with desperation.

“Yeah, no thanks,” John says sharply.

“Okay, _now_ this is getting good,” Donovan says with a smirk.

John pumps his own cock as his free hand massages Sherlock's perineum,--finger dipping inside shallowly every so often, teasing--causing Sherlock to make tiny, desperate noises. "Turn to the side." Sherlock’s mouth falls open, then he moves himself so he's still on all fours, facing the camera sideways. John settles behind him, leans down and buries his face between Sherlock’s arsecheeks.

“Oh god,” Sherlock says wantonly, dropping his head between his arms, pushing back into John’s face.

“Oh god,” Greg echoes.

John smacks Sherlock’s arsecheek, then the other, then again, then again in rapid succession. Sherlock’s back arches sinuously and John pulls away.

“You like that?” John growls, staring fixedly at Sherlock's arse, eyelids heavy, taking hold of his cock and stroking it fast.

“Yes,” Sherlock says breathlessly. John leans down and nips at the swell of Sherlock's left arsecheek. With his free hand, his licks at his thumb, and his hand disappears between Sherlock’s arsecheeks. "Get the lube. I want to fuck you now. You want that?"

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock hisses.

“Yes, what?”

“ _John_.”

John gives Sherlock another smack. “Say it.”

“Fuck me. _Please_.”

“Spoiler alert,” reverberates a crisp, familiar baritone through the sitting room. “He does.”

Greg feels his soul leave his body. “Oh,  _fuck.”_

The laptop is promptly slammed closed. Everyone whips their attentions over toward the doorway at Sherlock, who’s leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, watching them stonily.

Whitestone scrambles to stand up and nearly trips over her own feet. “We didn’t mean to—we were just looking for, um, protocol. It was protocol, Mr Holmes. That’s all. We shouldn’t have—it was wrong. Quite wrong. Sorry.”

A stand-off ensues. The four of them remain in dead silence as Sherlock stares them all down.

"Well," Donovan announces eventually. "This is awkward." As if it needed to be articulated aloud.

Greg hears a door close downstairs and a set of footsteps climbing the stairs. 

Greg looks desperately at Sherlock and tries to convey ‘please don’t tell John, I’d like to keep being friends with him’ with his eyes. Sherlock merely rolls his eyes at him. 

John hobbles in, struggling with eight plastic bags of groceries, four hanging off each arm. “You’re such a spoiled—oh.” John freezes, eyes darting from Greg to Donovan to Whitestone. “Greg. Sally. Been a while, yeah? Drugs bust?” John says airily. He flashes a polite smile at Whitestone. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m John. I’d shake your hand, but am a bit tied up at the moment.” He shoots Sherlock a pointed look.

Sherlock doesn’t react in any way, now seems perversely amused by the scene unfolding before him.

Meanwhile, Greg wishes he could disappear.

“Constable—Emma. Whitestone. It’s, um. Nice to meet you,” Whitestone stutters out.

John gives her a nod, then shuffles into the kitchen and relieves himself of the groceries with a succession of loud bangs. He groans. “Oh, Christ.” John returns to the sitting room and looks at Greg severely. Greg flinches as they make eye contact. “Did _Mycroft_  put you up to this, Greg?”

“Wewereactuallyjustleavingsorrybye,” Whitestone says in one breath, practically running out of the sitting room, head down, brushing past Sherlock—who looks momentarily affronted by the contact—and bounding down the steps.

John purses his lips, staring, confused, at the space Whitestone had just vacated. “She okay?” he asks the room at large.

Greg clears his throat awkwardly. “She’s…new,” he says by way of explanation. “And, well. Yeah. Sorry. Mycroft said he knew for certain Sherlock had—something. He sounded worried.”

“What a prick,” John says, huffing out a disbelieving laugh.

Greg doesn’t know what to make of that. “He was only concerned. I know he gets in the way sometimes, but he really does care.”

John tut-tuts. “He  _really_  needs to mind his own business.”

“God, I’m sorry,” Greg gushes.

John waves the apology away. “It’s not your fault, mate. I’m glad you’re concerned enough about Sherlock to take time out of your busy schedule to check up on him….” John looks between Donovan and Greg accusingly. “Even if it is technically an invasion of privacy. At least I know I can trust you.”

Sherlock snorts derisively, and Greg winces. John throws a baleful look at Sherlock. “There a problem?”

Sherlock just puts his hands up in mock-surrender and, mercifully, says nothing. John sighs long-sufferingly and looks back to Greg, and Greg offers him an apologetic half-smile.

“Well, sorry about…all this. Don’t want intrude any longer. We best be going. Come on Donovan,” Greg says through clenched teeth, giving her a meaningful look. Donovan doesn’t move, stares at John deviously. “Donovan,” Greg damn well nearly begs. “Come on.”

“You’re looking well, John,” Donovan says cloyingly. Greg turns slowly to John and braces himself for the worst.

John gives her a tiny, if a bit confounded, smile. “Cheers, Sally. As are you.” He clears his throat and smiles, more genuine. “As always.”

Donovan grins with pure, unadulterated, impish delight.

“We’re off. John. Sherlock.  _Donovan_ ,” Greg says pointedly, striding purposefully toward the door, feeling Sherlock’s gaze bore into the back of his skull. Greg walks faster.

“Have a good one, boys,” Donovan says coolly.  She stops just before the doorway and turns back to face John. “Oh, and John?”

John smiles sweetly. “Sally?”

“You have an  _excellent_  cock.”

John’s expression drops, and he goes completely still.

“’Evening,” she lilts, then high-tails it out of the flat.

“’Evening, lads,” Greg says shiftily, taking off into the hallway and flying down the stairs.

Greg slips outside, slams the front door closed behind him, and hurries toward the police car, where Whitestone is sitting in the back, looking every bit guilty, and Donovan is sitting in the passenger seat laughing at him.

\--

He hears nothing from Sherlock or John for the next few days. Greg starts to think maybe Sherlock hadn’t said anything to John. Maybe John had thought Sally’s comment was a one-off, was Sally having a laugh—well, she _was_ having a laugh, but it wasn’t baseless.

Maybe it’ll all just disappear.

He gets an easy case, solves it in two days. But in the late afternoon at the tail-end of the week, Greg’s mobile rings. The caller ID reads John Watson.

Greg considers not answering. He’s far too ashamed to face John, but he decides it’ll only prolong the inevitable confrontation he’ll need to have with the man. His friend.

On the fourth ring, Greg corrals all his courage and answers as cool as can be, “’Lo John.”

“Greg.”

“All right?”

“Mm, not really,” John says, all ice. “Bit pissed off, to be honest.”

“What’s happened, then?” Greg tries with faux-innocence.

“Come off it.”

“Right, yeah,” Greg concedes, dropping the act. “God. I’m sorry. Seriously, John. I’m sorry I even watched one second of it.”

John huffs out an amazed laugh. “Really? Are you? You watched _fifteen bloody minutes_  of it!”

Greg grimaces. “Yeah, I’m  _sorry_ , all right? It was fucked up. Donovan—“

“Don’t,” John interrupts. “Don’t blame it on anyone. I don’t care about Sally. And, I don't care about—sorry, can’t remember her name. About the constable you were with. I just wanted to let  _you_  know I was disappointed about it, is all. About you. You’re supposed to be my mate.”

“I’m sorry, John,” Greg tries again.

There’s a long silence after that, but Greg doesn’t want to be the first one to break it.

“Look,” John starts with a decided firmness. “Privacy issues aside, we didn’t want to tell anyone. Not now. The press are still breathing down our necks because of my break up with Mary, my moving back into 221b. So this—you and Sally knowing—it’s not what we planned just yet.”

“It’s fine,” Greg says quickly. Because it is. “Really, it is. I’m happy for you both, you know—“

“Nope, stop right there,” John cuts in. “It’s new to us—well, sort of new to us, and we’re just settling into the relationship. We wanted to do it at our own pace, you know?” John pauses for a long, interminable moment. “I was going to tell you first.”

That’s like a punch to the gut. “I don't know what else to say. I'm sorry, mate."

“Yeah, well. We might as well tell everyone now.”

It’s silent for a moment.

“Mycroft,” John says eventually, thankfully. “Has he contacted you at all?”

“Uh, no? Should he have?” Greg’s not sure what that has to do with anything.

“He’s been trying to spy on me and Sherlock; he thinks there’s something going on between us.” Greg bites his lip. He thinks _that's_ rather an understatement. “And obviously there  _is_. As you well know. Sherlock pretty much forbids me to answer any of his calls because he thinks Mycroft will be able to tell we’re shagging just by talking to me.”

“Hang on. So the reason why he asked me on the drugs bust--”

“Yep.”

“Fucking hell. What a prick!”

“Yeah,” John agrees.

Greg lets out a sigh. “Can I at least say congrats?”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks.”

Greg grins; this is progress. He wants to restore some humour between them, so he says, “…For several things, really. For Sherlock, and for your—“

“Oh, Christ, Greg. Please, don’t—“

“Come on, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. No wonder you’ve got so much confi—“

“Jesus fucking Christ, Greg! Stop.”

Greg stops. Then both he and John burst out laughing.

“Hey, do you think I could talk to Sherlock?” Greg asks once the laughter’s died down. “Would like to properly apologise."

“Yeah, all right. Hang on. Sherlock!—“

“I don’t care,” Sherlock says when he gets on the receiver.

“All right, but I still want to—“

“I don’t care. But you made John upset so, by association, I'm not pleased with you. Though, admittedly, John can be awfully prudish for a man whose 'friends' have given him the nickname 'Three Continents Watson' in reference to his sexual conquests in North America, Europe, and Asia."

"Can people stop concerning themselves with my sex life please?" Greg hears John call out indignantly.

"I think I have some right to concern myself, being the cynosure of your sex life."

"The what?" Greg hears John say, sounding bemused.

“It is inexplicable why I am so thoroughly infatuated with him,” Sherlock deadpans.

“Oh, I think I know why,” Greg says cheekily.

“Why?” Sherlock asks, and sounds genuinely curious. Greg has to hold back laughter.

“Look," Greg says, veering back to the important matter at hand. "It was a private thing. I shouldn't have bloody watched it at all. I’m an arsehole, and I’m sorry.”

"Apology accepted," Sherlock intones. "Is this over now? Can I go?"

After Sherlock's hung up, about an hour later, Greg gets another call. It's from a number he doesn't recognise, but he answers it anyway.

"Detective Inspector," drawls the refined voice of Mycroft Holmes on the other end. "I apologise for not calling sooner. I've been very busy. Did you confiscate the drugs from Sherlock's flat?"

"I didn't, mate. There weren't any drugs."

"Were there not?"

"None at all."

"Hm. Well, if there is one person in this world who can trick me, it's Sherlock Holmes. He certainly had me fooled."

"Yep. Is that all?"

"Actually. There may be something else."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes, in fact. You wouldn’t have happened to--"

Greg hangs up.


End file.
